Page 76 of Just My Luck

He nodded. “They’re perfect.”

My brain ticked through the options. “Let’s try adding plum in the final stages to boost the flavor profile. Come up with a name that’s a play on a brown plum porter or something.”

His eyebrows creased, and his face fell. “I was going for a stout.”

I nodded, empathizing with his frustration and disappointment. He was learning the hard way, like we all had to do. “Congratulations, you successfully brewed your first porter.”

He shook my hand and let it roll off his shoulders. The stout was an easy save—unlike the time he forgot to sterilize and there were enough microbes from previous brews in the kettle to introduce Enterobacter. That mistake was twelve hundred dollars down the drain, but the worst of it was the fact it was in the pipes, and the entire brewhouse smelled like baby vomit for a week.

That was the thing.

In this business, if you couldn’t problem-solve on your feet, you were sunk. I suppose it was part of the appeal of running a brewery—the ability to think on my feet and fix things. A true brewer would do almost anything to avoid dumping barrels.

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Maybe I should have done a single barrel.”

I shook my head. We didn’t have an official pilot program for new beers. Nine times out of ten we developed a recipe and let it rip at full scale. The only time I took the painstaking steps for a sample barrel was to ensure it was perfect.

Meatball followed my attention to the small batch that was nearly finished and grinned. “You are going to want to try this one. I think you’re finally onto something, man.”

Meatball poured a sample into a tasting glass. He passed it to me, and I peered into the amber ale. Its color was inviting, with rich and warm orange tones with hints of deep ruby. I sniffed the beer, pleased with the caramel notes that had already developed. I took a tentative sip.

My eyes flew to Meatball as he nodded and grinned, excitement dancing around the edges of his slim frame. Toasty malt flavors mingled with smooth caramel. Subtle bread-like hints shone through the sweetness of the beer.

It was fucking perfect.

I looked at the glass again, reining in my excitement. “ABV?”

Meatball looked over his notes, scribbled in a notebook. “It should be just under seven percent alcohol by volume.”

I swirled the glass and cracked a tiny smile before taking another sample. “It’s pretty good.”

Meatball’s fingertips came to his temples before he gestured toward me in disbelief. “Pretty good? Are you fucking serious? It’s amazing.”

I smiled down at the new beer. After seven iterations, the recipe I’d developed to perfectly capture the subtle notes ofbiscuit and honey, which reminded me of my wife, was a slam dunk.

“What are you going to call it?” he asked.

I watched the last bubbles of foamy carbonation cling to the sides of the glass. “Still figuring that one out.”

He nodded. “Well, if we agree it’s a winner, I can start bulk ordering what we need to begin large-scale production and get it on the calendar.”

Everything about it felt right. “Let’s do it.”

I sat, hunched over my desk, with my notes for a blood orange ale I was looking forward to brewing. Plucking a few books from the shelf, I flipped through. I scribbled a few ideas regarding hops varieties or herbs I could try, and in the end decided to go with a malt that would balance out the natural bitterness of the orange pith.

My ears pricked when something felt off. I sat up and listened. Meatball had also noticed. Your body got used to the hum and thump of the equipment, but when any little thing changed, you noticed.

I listened again. “A pump turned off.”

Meatball offered a salute. “On it.” He pushed away from his desk to investigate.

Frustrated with my inability to focus, I tossed my pencil onto my desk and leaned back in my chair. The heels of my hands pressed into my eye sockets. So much of my life had been upended, and while I normally found solace in the precise and scientific nature of brewing and developing new recipes, I couldn’t stop my mind from spinning.

I was too distracted—my thoughts bounced between whatever was bothering Sloane, the information about my mother, my father’s secret life, all of it.

I dragged a hand through my hair and sighed, gaining Meatball’s attention as he walked back. “I can’t do this tonight.”

His eyes narrowed. “Everything okay?”

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